


OMEGA

by xax



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Play, BDSM, Come Inflation, Deepthroating, Demi-Furry, Drug Use, Large Cock, M/M, Masochism, Prolapse, Science Fiction, Size Difference, Transformation, Weird Animal Dicks, gape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8469724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xax/pseuds/xax
Summary: In which Rhys has a shitty job and a shitty life and doesn't really have the honest self-reflective capability to actually solve the problems with his life, so he decides to start with a new job, which is either the best or the worst decision he's ever made.





	

**Author's Note:**

> despite the name there's no alpha/omega stuff here. it's actually a reference to [the predictor role in newcomb's problem](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Newcomb%27s_paradox) and other decision-theory problems generally, which is... i mean, it will become clear eventually, but it's a pretty opaque reference given the _character named omega_ has yet to make any appearances. there's a reason this chapter is called the prologue!
> 
> also tags will change a lot going forward, so just... keep that in mind. even though that's an extremely vague warning! sorry.

He got the job on a Friday. It had been a week after the interview, and the tangle of worry in his gut had peaked and then dropped out all in the time between.

Even after the phone call, he hadn't caught up all at once — he kept thinking about his food budget; how much the enhancements had cost; how he'd skipped on his construction job the night before; only to realize again, right, he got the job.

He got the enhancements because he needed the job. It wasn't legal to discriminate, technically, but everyone knew Gene Inc. didn't bother hiring baseline humans for gruntwork. Too big a chance of getting infiltrated by an anti-genic extremist. Maybe if he'd applied to one of the high-end corporate jobs, with university and lab backing, but, well, the closest he came to those jobs was knowing, they didn't have to put out _ads_ for them. He was a _guard_ ; he'd done work before as a janitor and a bouncer. He'd needed all the help he could get.

It wasn't like he hadn't _wanted_ mods. They were pricey as hell, though; way out of his budget. That was how he'd justified his first tattoo: trying to get his first job as a bouncer, still a little gawky and teenaged, and figured he might as well look a little tougher. He'd wanted one for a while, but he'd needed a pretty good excuse to justify dropping almost a thousand dollars.

It'd been an impulse buy, honestly. He'd been itching for a change for a while, and thinking about the Gene Inc. posting. He'd paid rent yesterday, and for once he'd still had a nice stack of money left afterwards. There'd been nothing special about that night, not really.

They didn't have enhancements at the _corner drug_ ; he had to go up top, practically to the floating districts. By bus and then rail, watching the crowds around him turn whiter and healthier, to the upscale — well, upscale to him — department stores that had mods, arrayed out down a whole long aisle. Flimsy boxes, set across from the hair dye, with cases that rung when they were opened.

It was a solid wall of close-ups: claws and fangs, and a dozen kinds of fur; scales, feathers, another dozen sets of tails. Eyes, in what seemed like an infinite array of shades, were the next aisle over. You could buy anything you wanted, as long as it was something someone could make a buck selling it to you.

They were on sale, which he took as a good omen. It was something piddly like ten dollars, for something that was two hundred-some per, but that ten dollars could buy him a 24-pack of noodles. He'd eaten a lot of noodles in the interim.

The night had been cool when he stepped outside: early evening, sky cut up into a thousand pieces by the looming buildings above but _visible_. The upper works were a messy zigzag of lines and beams, edges lit by amber lights. The sun had set behind the buildings, and the skyline had been set in silhouette before a brilliant red-orange-pink sky, and the sky above had been tinged violet, deepening into darkness. There'd been a pit in his stomach: it was a shitload of money, and who knew if he'd even get the job. Inhale, exhale, watch his breath as it billowed up into curls. He'd always wanted to try out some mods anyway, he'd told himself; might as well do it, now that it was done.

His apartment was a slum, second basement in something that'd been an office building a hundred years ago, and with plumbing that hadn't been renovated since. His place was next to the water closet, all dingy pipes and clanging boilers. They'd been turning on the furnace in the past few days, and every so often the entire building would shake as the boiler heated up, bubbles surfacing through the pipes.

It was at least warm even in the winter; there was that. Humid, though. The complete lack of natural light was getting to him, but in this neighborhood that wouldn't have changed even if he was on the third floor; some upper causeway blotted out the noon sun for most of the year.

His satchel crackled when he tossed it against the sole chair. The plastic bags crackled more when he pulled them out.

He went over to the bathroom, rattling packets in his hands. They had the standard print: take feeder pills (white), twice daily for a week, then take the activator retrovirus, (bright red, only one per package,) then take the stabilizer pills (blue) for the next week to continue the changes. Only take with one other enhancements, which had to be from the same group. All of which he knew. He had five, which, whatever. The side effects weren't bad, just a certain extra fuzz or growth. Most of the people in the neighborhood with mods had the same thing, from taking a bunch at once. People were impatient. Who the fuck wanted to drag it out for two months, just to look a little more even and precise?

He put the various bottles and tablets in the mirror cabinet, then shut it, catching himself in the mirror. He looked usual. Tired. The light made the craggy mess of his acne scars looks like dark pits; his skin was pockmarked and weatherbeaten. It hit him for the first time that he _wasn't_ gonna look like this for much longer. He pulled his lips up in an affected growl, trying to picture what he'd look like with fangs. Hell, what he'd look like with the _ears_. It wasn't like they turned people into _clones_ ; he'd still look different from all the other douchebags who took a bunch of tiger mods.

He'd gotten feline family, tiger. Fangs, fuzzy ears, claws, a little fur, tail. The side effects would — give him more fur, maybe, or fuck with the stripes. He sure as hell wouldn't be looking like himself for much longer. Looking at his face for the last time, it'd felt solemn and strange. He'd felt dumb in the morning when he woke up and realized the feeder pills didn't do anything themselves; the same reflection looking back at him. He took the first five feeder pills, all in one gulp, and went to sleep. Twice a day, for the next week.

And that was how it went: construction during the day, by rail, out in the outskirts, working on what would be a pillar support in half a decade. Five pills at lunch. Janitor work at Morning Light High School a little closer in, just a few hours sweeping and mopping after all the kids left. Back to his apartment, five more pills, then bouncer work at a dive bar out on the rail line his friend owned ("the Grid"), looking looming and immense and only sometimes having to throw people bodily outside onto the pavement. Back home, exercise, shower, sleep for a few hours, then it all started over.

The only real change was the exercise. The feeder pills were heavy stuff, stimulants. He was gaining muscle weight fast, even though he was fucking _starving_. Nothing but crackers and noodles, after all. He made some peanut sauce; that was the extent of his pantry: noodles, peanut butter, old spices.

He ran a real low-grade fever all week. He got flushed and sweaty, his skin prickling in weird shivering ripples. There were little red ribbons of stretch marks over his shoulders and hips by the time the week was up, and _that_ hadn't happened since he was a teenager.

He'd taken the five red pills at lunch, like it was just part of his routine. He'd felt dizzy afterwards, maybe, but it could've just been nerves. He got home and took the next set, before leaving for the Grid. It'd been busy as hell, the weekend, and things had gotten _rough_ ; he'd broken up a brawl and ended up taking a lucky fist to the face; the throb pulsed through his jaw the entire train ride home. Afterwards he hadn't even been thinking about the pills; he just got home and fell into bed, cocking his jaw to draw the ache to the surface as he stroked his dick, passing out right after he blew his load.

He'd woken up _ravenous_. It was early morning (or that was what his clock told him, at least) and the room was muggy, sweltering hot. He'd sweat through the thin sheet, practically stewing in his own sweat.

The pain in his stomach forced him up, and he stagged to the kitchen — kitchen section of the room — and opened the fridge. The dim light was piercingly bright, and he had to raise a hand to block it, squinting his eyes as he rooted around almost blind. He'd picked up a block of tofu and some not entirely wilted greens, so he just tossed those in a pan with some noodles, frying them up. Just the red light from the electric burner was enough for him to see, everything a colorless grey-red. Usually his night-vision wasn't that good, he thought, and that was when it finally hit him that the pills were doing their job.

On reflection, he hadn't had much of an issue with cutting through the plastic case of the tofu with his thumbnail, either. He held his hand up to the light of the burner, fingers splayed. His nails were _longer_ , that was sure, red light shining through murkily translucent, and through them he could see the spur forming down the center, curled at the tips into a nubby claw.

He drank down the noodle broth still steaming, burning his tongue. Even with his stomach full his body ached with hunger, just a hair below his limbs trembling.

Fuck it, he thought, I'm gonna get some food. He had some money in his account still, after all, even if it was solidly earmarked for rent. He could be late; he'd been late before. But, fuck, no sense starving himself when he didn't have to.

He pulled himself into last night's clothes, still reeking of stale beer and smoke, and headed out. The hall lights were as dim as always, but they seemed painfully bright; he had to cover his eyes until he was halfway up the stairwell, and even then he ended up crying all over the place, eyes watering. The basement floors were just as hot as his apartment, down by the boiler, but when he stepped outside it was like stepping into a freezer. He was _steaming_ , sweat practically sublimating from his skin in the chill air, and when he inhaled the cold cut through him like a knife.

His body didn't _feel_ that different. At least, not yet. He was loose-limbed and limber — he'd been expecting to ache all over after the fight last night, but the throb of pain had diminished to a weak ache, not half as strong as he'd would've liked. He jogged through the empty streets, down to the corner store a few blocks over. It was just opening, the owner slowly wheeling some glass-bottle drink crates in. The clatter as the dolly bumped up over the stoop punctuated the air over the ever-present hum of the fridges.

He headed straight to the back, to the line of freezers. It was even more unpleasant to stand near them; chill radiated off the glass, billowing out when he jerked open the door and pulled out a lopsided bag of meat nuggets. Not exactly fine dining, but it was food, and cheap. He got some tinned beans too, and more noodles, and then some tinned tomatoes since he was there anyway, and in the end the price was _definitely_ more than he'd liked. He paid with his chip; he didn't have that much cash in his wallet.

He headed home. He ate a lot. In the bent reflection of his pot, his eyes were warped, pupils lopsided and skewed, iris reshaping itself. Everything seemed too bright.

By that time it was too late to be worth it to sleep longer, so it was just off to the construction site. He was really hoping he'd get the Gene Inc. job.

By evening he'd plateaued. He was so tired abstract thought was impossible; everything felt hazy at the edges. He almost forgot to take the stabilizer pills with his paltry lunch. His _body_ wasn't having any trouble keeping up, muscles free (for once) of the exhaustion that built up after a day's work. He had to be running a fever, sweating constantly. He felt like a candle, like he had a plume of flame spitting from his head, sending the air around him billowing up in currents. Every breath was a shock of cold air, rushing into his lungs. Chill for a moment, and then he swore he could _feel_ the oxygen catch, flooding out through his body, pumping into his veins. He considered it more likely he was just having sensory hallucinations. It kept up, impossible to ignore, dizzying and infuriating in equal measure.

He had to work through it; he didn't have time for the inevitable transformation-fever to knock him out. His body reacting to the retrovirus, attacking it like any other virus. He couldn't wait until it broke. At least he had two concurrent days off one of his jobs coming up; usually he went out and did something, but now he'd take just lying in bed, body trembling with its new energy.

It had been a slow progression: on Thursday he woke up to his teeth throbbing, like he had a rotting cavity in every single one. The line of his teeth felt uneven — a different kind of uneven. They were lumpy, light reflecting off them in shattered clusters. His canines were larger and sharper. He prodded at his teeth with his tongue, slowly prying off thick flakes of enamel, spitting them out one after the other into the sink. He skipped brushing his teeth. It was a marked improvement from the first generation of teeth alterations — the ones where all your teeth fell out before the new ones grew in — but it was still pretty unpleasant. That ache in his jaw didn't go away, at least.

He showered after coming back from the bar that night and his palm scraped over stubble down the back of his neck, fine prickly fuzz coming in, and in the morning it'd spread across his shoulders, barely perceptible.

His chest was a mess, the tightly-curled hair already there mixing with new fur, and his skin all over was itchy and red. There was a red blister above his ass, like a pimple from hell, deep under the skin and pulsating pain whenever he put pressure on it. There was a pressure deep in his ears; everything sounded muted and muffled, and when he'd run his fingers over the shell of his ear it'd felt strange, cartilage thinner in some places and thicker in others.

That night he accidentally clawed a guy catching his arm, leaving four curving lines up the outside of his forearm. He'd had dark grime under his nails, dirt and dried blood. He'd picked his nails with the opposing hand, getting out neat little black curls.

Monday morning and his wobbly pupils had finally stabilized: they had slit vertically in the bathroom mirror when he got up, squinting in the light. _Looking_ hurt. His new irises hadn't been ready for use yet. His roots were coming in blond, in streaks around his temples, like he was going grey.

Monday was also when the growing ache above his ass finally broke, the heavy gross boil popping as his vestigial tail crunched into place. He stretched back, arching his back, and it aligned with his spine with a _pop_ , like a joint finally falling into place. Exactly like that, in fact. It was pink-black, hairless, more just a triangular flap above his ass than anything useful yet. Growing his spinal cord, bones and nerves and everything, that wasn't something he was looking forward to. It wasn't big enough to accidentally sit on, but it was a constant ache nonetheless, a steady pulsing that faded into the background after an hour, only to surface in his awareness hours later — heart beating faster as he struggled to align girders, abruptly aware of the sharper throb of his growing tail.

Tuesday he woke up flushed in a way he hadn't been for a while, body singing with pleasure just from the sensation of the wet sheets shifting over his skin, curling over his hip. He was rock hard, for the first time since he'd started the pills, and his cock was leaking like crazy, dripping all over his stomach, soaking through the already saturated sheets. He ground forward, on his stomach, cock skidding up the mattress, and the friction sung through his stomach, curling up his spine and into his arms and legs. It was a sheer overstimulated _pleasure_ , the swollen ache in his fingers and toes transmuted — some time in the night — into a harder heat, deeper and slower. Not quite such a sharp, shallow pain.

He reached down for his cock, and, completely forgetting he had claws now, gouged a chunk across his stomach. His cock didn't even have the grace to go soft as he hopped, cursing, out of bed, and staggered over to the bathroom, smearing blood all over his hand. He didn't even go soft while he was dragging alcohol-soaked toilet paper over the wound, burning and stinging. No, he was still half-focused on how the alcohol dripped, stinging, down the flared line of his stomach, soaking into his furry pubes, a single wet bead dripping down over the taut, ridged skin of his balls. His _cock_ was dripping: he hadn't been that wet a guy, cock spitting out the scarce bubble of clear pre, but now he was leaking steadily, cock twitching practically at every touch, pushing up little wet gushes of pre. They beaded down his shaft, cool against the hot air.

In the mirror, his face was... different. The underside of his nose had turned coal-black, and the skin across his face had lightened in jagged stripes, yellow-gold skin a pale contrast to the usual, over his jaw and cheeks. His stubble was coming in golden. His eyes shone green-red when he angled his head, and the view on the other side of the flash was strange: everything reduced to almost-flat white and black, with color curling in at the edges. When the angle was just right his eyes eclipsed into a flat, pure-white circle, and everything went completely desaturated.

His teeth had stopped flaking, thank god, and the enamel was building itself back up, slick and weird after the days of rough, cracked bone in his mouth. He kept biting the edge of his tongue; it was ragged and sore. Everything still felt hazy.

He'd shaved his head. His hair had gotten two-tone, the blond streaks hidden in the usual black, and it wasn't like he kept his hair in any kind of style. He buzzed it down to stubble, until only the very tips of his blond hairs were black. He stared at himself in the mirror for long moment, teeth pulled back to show fang, ears fanning out in shaggy tufts, the flesh there thicker in places and thinner in others. All his piercings were shifted, dragging in new places, with weird over-healed scar tissue around them, the modifications overcompensating. He'd had to switch a size down on his plugs; they'd healed smaller.

His body'd _ached_. Mostly his tail, block after block of his tail forming, in pulpy cancerous chambers, muscle and tendon loosely dragging each bone into place before starting on the next. There was stubbly fur poking out all over: his forearms were _furry_ , his hair growing thick and shaggy from his elbow all the way down to the back of his hands.

There was a tuft of hair right in the center of his chest, fuzzy and dark. Most of his curly hairs had fallen out, replaced with still-fine fur, thick and crinkling to the touch. Hair spread in curls over his chest, fanning out over the broad slope of his pecs, almost to his nipples. His pubes, well. There was a thick triangle of fur spreading down from his belly button, and the tight curls of his pubes had gone slack and springy, weirdly soft to the touch. His inner thighs were black and golden, more zigzags lightening his skin in chunky ribbons, and his hips looked like one enormous stretch mark, with two finger-thick stripes on either side.

His cock was same as usual — he hadn't gotten _those_ mods — but he was practically sheathed anyway, fuzz growing up his shaft, all the way to the tip of his foreskin, which had gotten a whole lot looser, folds that when he got hard — like right then, cock bobbing up his stomach, smeared with blood — pulled almost all the way down his shaft, baring black-purple flesh, slick and hard.

In the mirror he turned, neck twisted to try and look at the back of head. His hair didn't stop: stubble grew down his neck and spread over his shoulders, where before there'd just been the occasional wiry hair. He scraped a hand up his neck, stubble rasping under his palm, and after that all his hair — fur — was standing on end. His skin was getting striped too, pale lines down the center of his back, all the way to his ass. His skin was _flaking_ , like dandruff only all over, cracking around where his stripes were showing in sooty flakes. His tail was still a mess, thin and stumpy, oozing. Some of the boils had scabbed-over, on their way to slowly healing to furless skin. A work in progress. He still had a few days more of stabilizer, and after that it was supposed to take a month or two for the changes to fully settle.

He looked good. He looked _great_. His tail was a wreck, yeah, but it'd clear up. His face was almost unrecognizable: hair shorn, skin striped and shaggy with fur all across his jaw; nose dark; teeth sharp and new-white; ears heavy and drawn-out, tufted. There was something different about the slope of his forehead, the shape of his jaw. Thicker, in a way, and deeper, something subtle about the way his entire face was put together. He'd been thinking he would need bigger studs after this; his current ones were getting lost in the fur, even with the new ring of scar tissue around all the holes. It was another expense he couldn't afford now, but the Gene Inc. job screening was in a week, and he had more reason to get a job there than others. They probably wouldn't want him wearing metal while on the job, anyway.

He'd gained something like fifteen pounds of muscle, not really even doing anything. There was a new weight to his chest: stomach defined like it hadn't been since he was eighteen; biceps heavier; forearms a mass of fur, muscle corded and heavy underneath them. Cock hard like he hadn't had to deal with since he was eighteen, too.

By the next morning the cut'd healed up entirely, leaving a shiny brown scar that looked a lot more impressive than an accidental masturbation injury. He woke up in the same daze, face pressed into his sodden pillow, hips rutting forward, cock practically spraying precome up and down over the sheets.

He had to work out a whole new jack-off routine, between the claws and the new fur on his dick. It caught on the mattress, spiky little pinpricks working back and forth, and each motion was like crackling electricity. Sensation curled up and down his shaft, fur tangling together at the crown as he pushed forwards, cockhead rubbing sloppy and wet over his glossy sheets, friction hot-slippery, almost chafing as he rutted forward again and again.

He moaned, something catching in his throat, and it came out as a tight _yowl_ , echoing in his cramped, dingy apartment. His cock twitched, balls tight and heavy at the root of his cock, and he came in pulses, the whole length of his dick trembling. Some internal muscle kicked, hard, and a solid rope of jizz sprayed out into the sheets, smearing into the fuzz on his stomach as he kept rutting against the bed, hands uselessly clenched in the sheets. He'd torn holes in the fabric; he had to get a new sheet, since his tossing and turning just tore it more. He'd unloaded _messily_ , heavy slopping bursts of come spurting from his cock, even long after the dizzy haze of orgasm had faded, and it was just a weird ripple of dim pleasure, wet streaks spurting into his absolutely sodden sheets.

Some sexual side effects, no shit. He'd slumped forward into the wet spot, breathing hard. Jizz squelched up his stomach, smearing his patchy fur to his skin in clumps. The sparking heat was still singing up and down his cock, almost-painful flares in time with his breath, his cock dragging minutely against the sodden sheets. It was minutes before the tingling sensation faded, and by that time he'd almost dozed off again.

No construction that day, finally, so he just lay in bed for the morning. Stroked himself off again, lazily, rutting up into the palm of his hand with his claws curled in against his stomach. It was _lewd_ , pre squelching in his foreskin as he thrust, crackling wetly over his skin. He drew it out, in no hurry, and even before he came his hand was drenched. The apartment reeked of sex afterward, heavy in the muggy air.

He took a shower, half-hard the whole time, got dressed — for the first time his usual bouncer clothes felt _tight_ , a little too small on the arm and shoulder, and his patchy fur was finally thick enough to feel weird, riding up under the fabric. His short hair practically haloed his head in the light, fuzzing out in tufts, and the whole package together made him look feral, like a wild animal. It was a nice look.

Down at the bar — guys had been getting a little less violent when he tossed them out; it was more and more obvious who'd win that fight. Sure, he'd looked threatening before, but with the whole mess of genic mods on top of it? He looked like a wild animal.

That was Monday, when he almost fucked the douchebag wannabe-werewolf who showed up at the Grid. Called himself Ripper; the name of his ID said Ray. He was rangy, scrawny and lean, modification burn painting his fur two-tone brown, pushing his face out in a squat muzzle, mouth full of too-many teeth. He wasn't unattractive — he'd fucked uglier guys — but the guy was such a sleaze. The only thing worse than having to listen to his gross-ass stories would've been having to listen since they were tied together, the guy's knot fat in his ass. But fuck, it was tempting. He'd thought about gagging him first, tying his hands back, before going down on him. He spent most of his day half-hard, leaking in his boxer-briefs, thinking of having _himself_ tied up, gagged and hard, ass gaping from taking their brutal cocks.

What he'd actually done was toss Ripper out on his ass, kicking him while he was down, but after closing —

His boss, Trey, had been giving him looks ever since his mods had started to show. They'd been — close, a year back, until they ended things. Still friends, but not that close. He was tall, on the lithe side, with craggy features. Longer hair he kept pulled back in a high ponytail, and unless it'd changed in the last year and a half he had a pretty nice dick. Long, thick, curving to the left. He'd been vibrating out of his fucking skin, body flushed with heat, so distracted by the accidental scrapes of skin-on-skin he could barely do his fucking job.

He loitered after closing, talking with Eve, the bartender, as she closed up, and when Trey stepped out of his office his eyes went straight to him.

"Hey, Rhys, man, You been tense." Trey said, settling down on the seat next to him. Flat, but not unkind.

"Genic's got an opening," he — Rhys — said. "Security guard. I applied. Interviews tomorrow."

Trey whistled, low. "Shit, man, hope it works out." He grinned, easy. "You'll still come in here, right?"

"No reason not to." Rhys inhaled, slow. "Could you..." he said, trailing off, looking to the side, and Trey caught his look with a sharper smile.

"Yeah, man, don't worry about it," he'd said, and five minutes after that, once Eve'd finished her count and left, Trey nodded to the 'employees only' door. "I'm gonna get the stuff; be back there when I get back. Naked, on your knees."

"Yeah," he said, mouth suddenly dry.

There was a hallway behind the door, dark and dingy. One way lead to the barred back door, and the other went to the stairs up to Trey's loft, and between them were a half-dozen doors — closets and storage and bathrooms and the even more cramped backstage — but the thought that Trey might've meant one of those places didn't even enter his head.

Rhys tugged his shirt over his head and went to work on his belt. His skin prickled up into goosebumps in the cooling air, fur standing on end across his shoulders. Kicked his boots off and lowered himself down with a slow exhale, focusing on his breathing.

He'd tried meditation a few years back, but he could never focus himself. He was sure as hell focused _now_ , though: cool air wrapping over his skin, body bearing down on the dirty tile in four round points of contact, the balls of his feet and just under his knee. He was already hard; he'd been half-hard through most of his shift.

The light above him hummed, the noise constant but muffled until then by the noise of living, the shift of fabric when he walked, the creak of his bones as he moved. He could hear Trey up above, slow muffled creaks as he walked over the hardwood floor, and the thump of rope.

It was nice of him to do this. They'd parted amicably; they'd fucked around for a while and then they'd stopped — ultimately they were after different things.

Trey wasn't his type, not exactly; didn't hit hard enough or like to draw blood. Didn't want to choke him. He liked his guys strong enough to pin him down, and — well, and guys like that were thin on the ground even before he'd started taking the mods. There were a dozen things on the other side of it — Trey had studded paddles; but he'd always preferred things with a little less _mediation_ : just fists on his skin, or pulling his arms back until he could just _pull_ and hear his tendons pop. But Trey knew him well; well enough to know exactly what he wanted out of this.

He shifted his weight back, hands behind his back, knuckles brushing against the tile. The muscles of his stomach stretched, a nice premonition of what he'd be going through in a minute or two. He looked up at the light until everything went colorless, head tipped back. Throat bared, stomach exposed.

Trey came down with his usual gait, feet thumping on the stairs with inexplicable pauses and starts, and he could hear his pace even out and slow when he caught sight of him.

"Good boy," he said, coming closer. "Don't worry, I'm gonna take good care of you." Trey's hand touched across his cheek, and then down, rasping over his stubble, out over the solid slope of his shoulder, curling possessively over his skin. Trey had his manacles slung over his shoulder, hanging down his back, their buckles clinking like chimes.

Trey put the manacles on one at a time. Ankles first, then wrists, and then he started binding them together. They were nice; professional stuff. Dull metal and black fur. Padded on the inside, secured with thick canvas straps through metal buckles, and with a chunky half-ring jutting out the side.

He let himself sink down, muscles relaxing as Trey strung him up, the tension on the cuffs slowly increasing as he ran cords of rope through the rings. His weight shifted: knees spreading, shoulders pulled back, back arched.

"Collar?" Trey said it like he was asking for the time.

"Yeah," he said, not nodding, and Trey tugged his head to the side, his broad fingers pressing against his throat as he settled the final piece on him, a solid weight around his neck, with just enough tension to remind him it was there.

It was easy to get lost in the slide of material, rope pressing against his back. The tension shifted all through his body, like his skeleton was wired into the weight of rope, and it took up the slack as Trey pulled him into the right position, like some kind of posing doll.

"Been a while," Trey said, and he just let the words roll over him. When he said "yeah" back it hardly felt like him saying it. "I don't think I complemented the mods." Trey's fingers found the furry fringe of his ears, dragged out into thicker points. "They look good." He moved down to touch his chest, hand never leaving his skin, just dragging down as a firm, solid shape. "Stronger too, right?"

It was hard not to tense up at first, even though he knew exactly what was coming. Trey's firm touch lifted up, becoming a ghosting pressure; fingertips touching fur and leaving eddies of air in their wake. He reached lower, across his stomach.

Trey stroked down his bare stomach, palm rasping through the newly shaggy fur there, still coarse. Sensation sparked all across his stomach, spreading out in waves up his chest. He could come just from that; Trey'd gotten him off like that before, and now when he was dizzy with arousal, cock dripping all over the place, it would only take a fraction longer. Rhys tried to push against him, groaning when Trey's fingers dug into the tight muscle of his gut. Trey's touches — _petting_ him, basically — got lighter, pulling back until Rhys whined; he heard more than saw his smile. He had already tensed up, knowing what was next.

Trey's fingertips trailed far too-lightly and the thrum of pleasure turned into something sharper. His stomach was fucking sensitive; an errant touch could make him spasm so hard he fucking charley-horsed his abs, and that was exactly what Trey was going for. Rhys tried to move into the touch, shoulders squirming with what little slack he had, but he couldn't budge, couldn't even shift his weight enough to tip himself forward.

Even after Trey lifted his hand he kept spasming, stomach clenching in on itself, muscle knotting up against itself until it was a solid wall of pain. Trey reached down, between his spread legs, and tugged on his cock, still steadily spurting pre. "Still hard," he said, breath billowing out over Rhys' bare chest. "Don't even need a ring." Trey kept stroking: one hand wrapped loose around his drooling cock, thumb flicking against his slick cockhead. His other hand felt like it was everywhere, skimming across his stomach and chest whenever he stopped trembling.

"Open your mouth," Trey said, so he did, and he let go of his cock, slid his fingers in over his tongue, the salt-bitter taste of his pre rich and heavy. "You got some fangs here, too, huh?" Trey's fingers ran over his teeth, rolling over the oversized curve of his newly-massive canines, slick. Spit pooled in the back of his throat, and he swallowed around Trey's fingers, getting another taste of his pre. "Looks good on you."

Trey tugged on his nipples, pebbled against the cold, twisting one and then the other until they were aching red nubs, stiff and sharp pointing out from his chest. His hand slid down again; it was easier to relax into the pain the second time, abs flexing until they locked, feeling the tension in the rope as he impotently roared, like it was an extension of his body. When Trey brought his hand back, his cheeks were wet with tears.

"Open your eyes," Trey said, and when he did everything was blurry, eyes out of focus and reducing everything to a green-brown-black blur. Trey tipped his head forward, centering the red-brown blur of his body. "I'm gonna fuck your mouth," They said, and Rhys entire body jerked, pulling forward. "But first I'm gonna put this in —" and there was a clink, a smear of dark metal-bronze across his field of vision. It was almost automatic to respond to Trey's "you good?" with a rasping "yeah."

The bit going into his mouth was body-temperature, warmed by Trey's hands, and settling down behind his molars, keeping his mouth open and drooling. His spit ran down his chest as a thick line, the air chill in its wake. He could smell Trey's cock before his eyes focused on it, jutting out hard from the fly of his pants, salt and heat radiating out from him. Trey stepped close. His cockhead smacked against Rhys' cheek, then settled there, solid and heavy until Rhys tipped his head, lining the fat head up with his drooling mouth.

Trey rocked in in a single thrust. His zipper was grating against Rhy's lips; nose buried in his pubes. Rhys gagged, eyes watering, throat convulsing. Rhys swallowed around it, throat sucking on the tip, and groaned, aware of his spit just dripping over his lips, streaking down Trey's shaft and soaking his balls, wet when they slapped against his chin.

Trey fucked his mouth, tugging back until the spongy-soft tip was dimpling Rhys' lower lip, heavy and giving slightly, wet with spit and pre. Meanwhile, _Rhys_ was spurting pre, low arcs of clear fluid shooting from his cock and splattering all over the dingy tiles.

It was sloppy as hell, the bit making him drool all over the place, Trey just rutting forward, stabbing his cock into his throat, using him like a hole. His tongue rasped around the shaft, flicking at his cockhead, and Trey rewarded him with a hand carding through his short hair, a tug that tilted his head to the side.

His tongue flicked back and forth over the underside of his boss' cock, rasping, and he pursed his lips, popping back and forth over the ridge of his cockhead. Trey swiped a thumb over his lips, feeding him the tethers of slime drooling out, and he swallowed again, gagging when Trey slammed pubes-deep again, balls meeting his face with a wet _slap_. Rhys convulsed around his cock and he groaned, working the last inch of his cock back and forth, webs of frothy spit drooling from Rhys' slack mouth.

"I'm gonna come in your fucking mouth, man," Trey said, voice sharp and short. Rhys swallowed again, stifling the gag when Trey rammed into his throat again, and then Trey was grunting as he shot off. His dick kicked with each shot, come thick and tasteless as Rhys swallowed it all down his throat. On his knees, naked and tied up in a drafty hallway, face mashed into his boss' pubes, lips spread around the fat root of his dick as he nursed the dregs of his load out, that was more than enough, and he came untouched with a muffled roar, cock pulsing and then spraying solid ropes of jizz, lancing from his cock to splatter between Trey's legs, spray splashing in all directions. He kept coming, jaw working, his whine muffled by the thick block of his boss' cock, swallowing reflexively as he spent his enormous load.

When he pulled off he was red-faced and his boss was only half-hard, and his cock was _still_ drooling strings of come across the floor. His boss' shoes were in the puddle he'd left. The knees of his jeans were soaked.

"You're cleaning that up," Trey said, voice only a little unsteady.

"Yeah." His lips were frosted with cords of spit, froth bubbling up as he tried to talk.

"Here," Trey said, and wiped his knuckles over Rhys' mouth; just that was enough to send another splat of jizz spraying onto the floor, streaking down his cock in gummy lines. Yeah, "possible sexual side effects", no shit.

Trey untied him — after a while — and he half-assed cleaning it up. The back already reeked of sex anyway.

The next day he'd woken up — in Trey's bed, Trey pressed up against his back — to the alarm he'd set on his phone: "INTERVIEW". It'd snuck up on him. He stole some of Trey's shitty coffee and then woke him up before leaving.

Took the bus to the industrial neighborhood, higher up but desolate, nothing but factories and machines. There was direct sunlight, for once; it made everything seem bleached out and faded. He spent half the bus trip thinking about fucking the guy sitting two seats up: his age; dark; heavy dreads bound with cable; wearing a shiny plastic jacket, yellow and red and black, loose and wrinkled on his shoulders. His collar kept catching on the handrail, pulling back to show the lean lines of his throat.

His cock practically leaked through his jeans. It felt like he fucking pissed himself. He felt dazed and out-of-it for the whole interview, though he didn't think it showed. People told him — frequently — he seemed stoic. Unruffleable.

He met the criteria: big, burly, decent employment history, desperate enough to never quit on them. He out-loomed most of the other candidates they had milling about, and most of them were (or at least looked) baseline-human. He wore his nicer clothes, like, not the jeans he'd ended up bleaching the knees of with his come the night before. It had been nerve-wracking, but it was a half-hour, and then it was done and out of his hands. He'd done what he could, and after that it was like he switched a breaker in his brain and stopped thinking about it.

Except — he didn't hear anything for a while, obviously. It started to weigh. Life was still just life — construction, janitor, bar — and he'd started thinking. He was hungry _all the time_ ; he could practically feel his muscles withering if he scrimped on food, and he just didn't have enough money to keep himself fed. It'd probably taper off once the mods finished up, but a month or two of starvation wasn't sounding appealing. Even if he got the job, it was what, two weeks before his first payday? So no matter what: a month of feeling weak and trembling in the mornings and going to sleep with an aching stomach.

When he stretched on his futon his feet hung off the edge; he'd gotten more than a few inches taller, slowly and without note. The mattress was almost exactly the size of his body; if he moved more than an inch in any direction some part of him hung off the edge. The only sheet he had left was the one he _hadn't_ shredded, and it was getting threadbare fast; he kept scraping it in his sleep.

Not that he regretted the mods, but hell if they didn't have some hidden costs. Costs that he could barely afford to pay as-is.

But it was done: he had no clue when Genic would call him, _if_ they would call him, and he'd taken the last set of stabilizer pills that day. His tail was still coming in, patchy fur growing down the small of his back and finally starting to cover the rat-like base. The tip was a bloated mess, but a little less so every day.

After that it was nothing major: his eyes lost the last of their wobble, and it didn't ache to look at bare sky during the day anymore; the stripes on his face and shoulders evened out, yellow shot through with gold; the fat zig-zags over his hips grew over with new hair. His hair grew out fast, thicker than it'd been, with complex streaks of blond. The black pad around his nostrils actually turned wet, catching the direction of the air in ways he'd never noticed before.

His cock was almost constantly hard. It was like he was sixteen again, lost in the blush of puberty and jerking off three or four times daily, except this time he made a hell of a lot more mess. Black fuzz grew most of the way up his cock, hanging darker between his thighs on the rare occasion he wasn't hard, and he couldn't even count the number of times he'd gotten home from a shift — morning or evening — and frantically jerked off, leaning against the door, painting stripes across the floor or shooting up across his chest, over his neck, a few times his jizz splattering suddenly hot on his face, drooling down the crest of his brow as he gasped and shuddered. He _desperately_ needed to get fucked.

After six days the worry had turned into resignation. Fuck them, he'd thought: it was just a shitty guard job, for warehouses and factories and who-gave-a-shit. He'd gotten turned down for jobs before, and this wasn't gonna be the last time. He'd done fine so far with his life, doing odd jobs and getting paid under the table often as not. Maybe he'd move out of his place; it was a luxury to live alone anyway, and he kind of missed having other people around. He had options, was the point, so who gave a fuck if Genic's planet-spanning corporate apparatus didn't care about him.

His whole body was flushed and trembling, heat scouring under his skin — under his fur, now, thick over his shoulders and down his back, fuzzy across his thighs. His body got turned on with dizzying alacrity, his aching cock just one part of a full-body rush, pleasure prickling at his throat and down his chest, gathering like sweat in his pits and the backs of his knees. He felt _hot_ , he felt _good_ , he felt like getting into a fistfight that left him bruised and bleeding and then riding a cock, and that was exactly what he went out and did.

Not to the Grid; Trey'd had fucking _words_ with him about baiting the drunks — it'd been how they'd started hooking up as more than just a casual thing, somewhere between Trey pulling him aside to say he was a shit bouncer if he kept starting fights and Trey fucking him into his mattress — and he wasn't in the fucking mood for anything other than someone really hitting him and meaning it to hurt, a lot. To be brutally honest, Trey wouldn't be _physically capable_ of hitting him as hard as he wanted, even if it was the kind of shit he was into.

It was some dingy bar below downtown, a squat brick box with burning neon outside, practically boxed in with concrete on all sides: the walls of old warehouses; a bass throb beating through the walls from some club.

He'd gone out looking for trouble, and he found some. He let himself get ejected from the bar with a crash, dragging another guy with him, let the brawl out onto the dry streets.

By the time he sent the last guy off — wheezing, after Rhys'd kneed him in the gut — he was a mess. Someone'd clawed up his side, ragged lines up to the bottom of his ribs, bleeding black in the dim amber light. His right eye was swollen shut; the skin around it was puffy and aching. His lip was cracked and bleeding, tearing more under his grin. A tooth wiggled when he ran his tongue across the line of his teeth. His chest was a mess of aches, pain zinging up across his chest with each shift of his muscles.

All he could hear was the rasp of his own breath; the hammering of his heartbeat. The chill air soaked into his feverish skin. Slowly the world expanded outside his own body.

He was standing in the parking lot of the bar, breath steaming around him, staring up at the underside of the plate above, its signals and walkway lights like stars, seeming close enough to touch.

Across the parking lot, there was some zebra-looking guy standing on the loading dock of the building there, the end of his cigarette just as bright as the dying light above the dock door. Rhys went over there, standing below him: "You got a smoke?"

Closer, and a little less zoned-out, he could track the bass throb to the wall behind; the dock was the back of some club. The guy sure looked like he'd dressed to go clubbing.

Honestly, the first thing he'd noticed about the guy was his _cock_ : he was wearing black jeans with an absolutely obscene bulge, the kind of thing that'd get him arrested for indecency if he wore it anywhere the cops went. A white undershirt, soaked translucent with sweat; in his offhand he had a black leather jacket dangling from his fingers, jingling with chrome studs and chains. It was very monochrome; that was probably intentional.

His cock, though: The dock meant the guy's crotch was eye-level, and hell if it wasn't an eyeful. His dick was a clear curve, inhumanly huge, tugged up along the line of his hip; below his balls made the kind of basket that looked like he was packing with no sense of moderation.

The guy gave him a cigarette, lit it, and Rhys took a long drag, turned and spat blood on the pavement before exhaling. He didn't smoke, much, but he loved the smell of it: ash and char. "Wanna fuck?"

Even aside from his cock — Rhys admitted he was a bit of a size queen — the guy was hot: younger than him, a little, and built as hell. They looked about the same size. The guy was chiseled, pecs heavy, abs clear through his sodden shirt. He had nice fucking skin, smooth and soft-looking in the dingy amber light. He was zebra-striped, the white stripes clear through his shirt; they wrapped in zig-zagging lines across his torso to center on his chest. He had darker skin than most, almost a true black, and the white stripes were an inhuman pale, pallid white. He had a mohawk, short and bleached white, that went down his neck, its stiff horsehair pulling his shirt away from his skin at the collar; the rest of his scalp was shaved down to weaving patterns through stubble. Long, shaggy ears, looking more like a donkey's than anything else. Broad teeth.

Honestly the guy looked caught between intrigued and freaked out; he'd taken a half-step back from the railing when Rhys'd walked up, and his line had made the guy go wide-eyed for a second. Still, Rhys didn't miss the way the guy's eyes flitted down his body, or the way his packed crotch was getting even tighter.

"I don't bottom," the guy said, automatically.

"Was I fucking asking you to?" Rhys spit again before opening wide, letting his tongue loll out, his teeth still pink, fresh blood dripping down his chin. He knew it was grotesque; that was half the fucking point. "C'mon, lemme suck your dick."

If that freaked the guy out, it was definitely warring with his interest. "Here?!" The guy said, incredulous, but he looked around, one hand on his belt buckle, checking to see if anyone was watching. Rhys had this in the bag.

"You got a better place?" Rhys stepped closer, hands wrapping around the bottom of the rusted iron railing. He really was at mouth-height for the guy's dick; the dock couldn't've been a better height if it was designed that way.

"Christ," the guy said, looking down, and Rhys leaned in, meeting the guy arching forwards him, the railing digging into his stomach.

The guy was covered in sweat, so much of it it'd lost its scent, just hot water soaking his clothes. It was still pungent on his jeans, spicy and spunk-smelling, and Rhys opened wide and sucked the sodden fabric into his mouth, slurping loud and lewd on the guy's bulge. The fabric pulsed under his touch, creaking audibly, fresh salt leeching through. "Easy," the guy said, reaching down to open his fly. He used both hands: one to pin back the bulge of his cock, one to actually undo his zipper.

He wasn't wearing anything underneath — hell, with jeans that tight nothing would've fit. Rhys nuzzled under his hand, tongue rasping over fuzzy flesh, and when the guy let go his cock slapped across his face with the force of a punch, rattling his loose tooth. Hell yeah the guy had gotten some mods, if the mane and stripes and horse teeth hadn't been enough of a hint. The swell of his cock had just been his _sheath_ , the tip gaping open the size of his palm. Once it hit the open air it unsheathed with a long wet slurp, feet of shining flesh just pouring out. The guy's stomach tensed, abs contracting into something even more sharply muscular as he pushed out the meat of his cock. It bobbed in the air, twitching, drooling a line of shining pre that stretched out until it snapped and hit the asphalt with a crack.

"Oh, fuck yeah," Rhys said, lapping along the underside, tasting salt and musk. He dragged a rasping line all the way up to the tip, leaving behind a thin red smear up the purple-black flesh. The guy's cock kicked, the little twitch enough to send it swinging back and forth, sending slashing lines of pre splattering across Rhys' chest.

The thing was flanged, a cord of wrinkled flesh wrapped around it halfway down, and when Rhys' tongue dragged over it the guy's legs buckled, a hose of pre spraying out to splat onto the pavement behind him a good second later. Naturally he latched onto it, maw yawning wide around the dude's pillar of horse-cock, slurping and lapping back and forth. He left a sloppy trail of reddish drool, smeared pink as the guy's pre lathered up over Rhys' split lip.

It didn't take long before the guy was keening, breath stuttering into snorting, hawwing moans. Rhys lapped around the ridge and then up, tongue laving through the dripping mess of his pre, until he was face-to-face with the spurting tip, getting a solid faceful of watery horse pre for his trouble, catching in his scruffy beard and dripping down at all angles.

The guy didn't seem to have a cockhead; it was just a flat end with a dimpled hole in the center that was pissing out pre, but it was flanged again near the tip, a handspan down. It took a minute, even up close and personal, for Rhys to realize that _was_ his cockhead. He didn't know much about horse dicks but he was pretty sure there was something about _flaring_ involved, and he sure as hell wanted to see this guy come.

The cockhead dragged over his mouth, stinging as it stretched his already-cracked lips wider. Rhys grinned around it, only feeling the hot mess of slime drooling down his chin; some blood but most pre. He struggled to swallow it — to fit it in his mouth, even — with his mouth cracked open too-wide, the hinge of his jaw sending sparking pain up and down his skull. There was a soggy _pop_ as his jaw popped from its socket, and that finally let him gape wide enough to fit the guy's cock in his mouth. Its gristly rim scrubbed hard across the curve of his teeth, and there was a sharp _crack_ that shot through his jaw. Rhys pulled back, bloated lips feeling too-slick as they rubbed against each other, and spat his formerly loose tooth out onto the pavement with a _clink_.

The guy noticed, letting out a shuddery "Fuck," that turned into another groan as Rhys got right back to it. It was a hell of a lot easier to unhinge his jaw the second time round, and the pressure of his thick shaft turned the stinging pain of his open socket into a steady throb, blood leaking out from it in time with his hammering heartbeat.

Trey would _not approve_.

The guy — well, his huge hands found Rhys' head, spanning across his short-cropped hair and pressing against his throat, and it was mostly desire to want the guy to feel his cock slide down his throat that had Rhys sink deeper. His throat clicked, his groans completely muffled, and the guy's cock bent and sunk down his throat. A thick, slobbery mess oozed out around his bloodied lips, awful choking squelches coming from his throat as he fucked himself on it, and yeah, he felt the guy's fingers twitch on his throat, sliding as he felt the meat of his cock stretching him out. His tongue was pinned flat under the shaft, tasting nothing but the guy's musk and his own blood.

Rhys choked, slime erupting around the guy's cock and drooling from his nose; pulled back, drooled blood and phlegm while he stroked the guy off, then dove back onto his horse cock with a liquid squelch. He bobbed back and forth, both hands stroking the shaft off. Each bob pushed him deeper, the flat edge of the guy's cock mercilessly plunging down his throat, deeper and deeper until it fucking _popped_ into his chest, catching and dragging under his collarbone with each squelch.

He kept having to draw back, take heaving, watery breaths, rubbing his wrecked face against the guy's cock as he waited for the grey to fade from his vision, for the bright, colorless sparks to subside. The guy seemed fine with it; he was _braying_ , loud enough Rhys was a little surprised no one'd caught them.

The zebra guy was hanging onto Rhys' shoulders like it was his anchor, hips mindlessly punching forward, fucking his cock across his face until the bristles of his sheath slammed against Rhys' lips.

He plunged back on the guy's cock, swallowing and then swallowing again as he gagged around the brutally fat shaft, stomach roiling from the sheer quantity of pre spraying into it. The guy groaned, finally getting his act together and fucking Rhys' mouth, all but grabbing him by the ears and dragging him down. Rhys' moan turned into a wet gag, slime pouring out around the guy's cock, eyes watering, but yeah, fuck yeah, he lurched forward and slammed Rhys' face into his crotch, his sheath hitting him like a punch in the mouth, the guy's musky pubes tangled against the flat pad of his nose, sending a sharp shock of pain up through the break.

Rhys mouthed at the base of his cock, barely able to do anything more than gag around the thing. Wet ropes of pre and phlegm drooled over his split lips, drenching the dock's edge, more and more frothing up his throat, bulging his cheeks.

The guy let out a bray that cracked in the middle, hands digging hard over Rhys' shoulders. The pressure in his chest doubled, weight shifting, and a sliding, heavy heat rose under his ribcage. Even though it lasted for a dozen or two long, sloshing pulses — the guy's whole cock spasming with each one, a gout of weight settling in his distended stomach until the only thing stopping him from puking it back up was the guy's cock working as a plug — it wasn't until the guy had stopped coming that Rhys consciously realized the guy _was_ coming.

The flare of his cock subsided, come immediately bubbling up Rhy's choking, gagging throat and spraying across the guy's crotch, and he fell to his knees, wobbling legs giving out on him. The cock pulled from his wrecked mouth in an explosion of jizz, still spitting gummy half-solid ropes across the back of his head. Rhys hit the ground, palms cut up by the shitty asphalt, heaving and shuddering, vomiting up first half-congealed gel chunks, then what had to be litres of watery horse jizz.

Sound came back with a rush, suddenly the pounding in his head _noise_ as well as a too-fast throb. The sludge drooling from his mouth made watery slaps as it spattered in the puddle below; his own breath was a squelching wheeze; the full-body spasms wracking his body matched up with hacking coughs, spitting out globs of jizz that had made their way into his lungs.

"Jesus fuck," the guy was saying, when Rhys finally staggered to his feet, vision and sound whiting out for a half-second. "Fuck!"

Rhys pushed his jaw back into place, not really wincing. "Fuck," he agreed, voice little more than a broken rasp, sounding now a lot more like a tiger's growl than any sound a human was supposed to make.

"You okay, man?!"

Rhys wiped his mouth with his forearm, matting his fur down with strings of filmy pink slime. "Never been better." His voice was a hoarse wreck.

"Fuck." The guy took a step back, sagging against the wall of the club. He was sweaty — sweatier, maybe — and his chest was heaving. Rhys stared at him for a second. His cock was still out, hanging in a drooping arch past his knees, coated in messy slime, excess still draining down from his half-flared cockhead. Just looking at it sparked a hot little twist in Rhys' guts. The guy noticed he was staring; or at least his cock twitched and stiffened again, already drooling fresh pre as the sludge of his last load dripped off. It was comically oversized, even on his burly frame. "Never, _ever_ done that."

Rhys smirked, split lip stinging harder. The thin crack had widened into a jagged rip, oozing blood slowly; he kept poking it with his tongue. "You got yourself a cock like that and you can't even use it, huh?"

"Yeah, well, most guys aren't as freaky as you." The guy's whole body was shuddering, little tremors that went straight to his swaying cock.

"How 'bout this:" Rhys cupped his cock through his jeans, showing its own fat bulge, nowhere near the size of the other guy's. His jeans squelched; he honestly might've come already when he was gagging on the guy's cock, but hell if he could tell. It could've just been the guy's load; he was saturated from the knees down, with splatters across his chest and thighs. The guy was completely hard again _already_ , the horse prick standing straight out from his crotch, his flare twitching, squelching as thick cords of pre drooled out from beneath the lip of his cockhead. "You get me off and I'll let you stick that thing up my ass, how about that."

"Christ, you're fucking nasty." The guy leered down at him. "You live nearby?" and then at Rhys' head shake he jerked his head to the side: "I'm two blocks down; we could go there."

Down from the dock Rhys almost laughed; he'd been thinking the guy was his size, but he hadn't quite caught up to how much _bigger_ he was now: he was a good three, four inches taller than the guy, and more solidly built besides.

There was no way the guy could fit his cock back in his pants, or even hide it; it was lucky it was late enough no one'd give a shit. Rhys jerked him off the whole way, pressed close, smeared to the elbow with watery horse pre, squelching between his fingers and oozing out from under the flare of the guy's cockhead in goopy strands. By the time they stumbled into the guy's shitty box apartment Rhys' shirt and coat were plastered to his skin, runnels of pre dripping down onto the dingy carpet.

The guy groaned, peeling Rhys' sodden shirt off, and then groaned again when he saw his bare chest, huge chunky muscles; his fur all stuck together in spikes, gleaming gold at the edge of his silhouette. "You're no fair, man, fuck, I was gonna see if I could catch someone at the club and then you just come up all huge and scary on my smoke break, fuck." The guy was sliding his fingers over Rhys' skin, carding through his jizz-tacky tufts of fur, nails scraping over the stiff nubs of his nipples.

"How about you shut up and fuck me." Rhys had already shucked his pants, naked already, and he tugged on the guy's cock, a long upward stroke that ended with a spray of pre hosing across his chest, leaving him dripping all down his chest and stomach.

The guy peeled his too-tight jeans down, flipping them inside-out, and nearly crashed through a doorway in his haste to get naked. Rhys had been wrong about his balls, too: that mammoth lump had been _one_ of them, the other jammed up lopsided between his ass cheeks. They bounced as they guy staggered. "Yeah, fuck, come on." He pulled Rhys along, and they hit the bed with a bounce, pressed chest-to-chest together, the guy's cock fountaining between them, balls fucking head-sized mounds against Rhys' thighs.

Rhys' jaw still ached, a shot of pain racing through it every time he spoke, and he couldn't wait to feel what the fucking club felt like up his ass. He straddled the guy, cock pressed against his back, his own cock dripping across the guy's chest, drooling ion the center of his chest, where his stripes all came together. The fat horse shaft spread his cheeks and spanned higher upward, most of the way up his back. His tail twitched, dragging along the guy's shaft, its still-patchy fur soaked to his skin. The zebra guy whined, hips lurching up, hosing down his back, with wet trickles of pre dripping into the fur at the base of his tail.

"Not gonna lie, this is gonna hurt like a bitch."

Rhys leaned in close, fingers wrapping around the smooth muscles of the guy's back. He watched the hair on the back of the guy's neck prickle up as he spoke, his breath puffing out over the drawn-out shell of the guy's donkey ears. "I'll tell you a secret, man," he said, voice still clotted and rasping. "I want it to fucking hurt."

The guy's fingers found Rhys' hole, both their bodies already sloppy with the guy's pre, and Rhys arched into it, bearing down as he shoved three fingers inside, the rough stretch burning up his spine, crackling down his tail in a dizzying rush of new sensation. He settled back, pre slurping into his spreading hole as he forced the guy's fingers into him, down to the knuckles. The guy finger-fucked him, cock spouting all the way up Rhys' back. Zebra guy pulled out with a slurp, dragged his fingers across his shaft, swiping up thick rivers of pre, and then pressed back in with an even lewder squelch, working Rhys wider and wider until he was half-mad with desire, a growl growing in his throat.

"Stop fucking around and shove it in me," he growled, baring still-bloody teeth. The zebra guy groaned again, a fresh layer of pre coating his back, and then he pulled his fingers out, leaving Rhys' hole open and gaping. He leaned in — had to scoot forward until he was straddling the guy's neck before the head of his gargantuan cock was actually pressed against his ass — and then pressed back against it.

That thing sure wasn't designed to fit in any kind of human orifice, or, hell, not any animal ones either. _Animals_ had a sense of proportion; sheer human vanity had made this. His asshole winked open and closed, pre drooling out from where the guy had practically stuffed handfuls inside, and that flat cockhead felt like a plate: something mashing against his cheeks, too thick to push between. He reached back, dug his fingers into his already slack and puffy hole and almost physically wrapped it around the guy's cockhead, his asshole stretched drum-tight around the monumental girth of his cock.

It scraped into his body — it sunk inside like something stabbing him, a sharp burn with a sloppy edge, pre already squirting out around the fat plug of the cockhead. It caught against the bones of his pelvis, the sensation outlining the surfaces of his ass. Internal muscle stretched around the fat cockhead, distending as it plunged deeper with a sucking gurgle. Rhys panted raggedly, a yowl in his throat as he rutted further down.

The guy had thrown his head back, the sharp line of his jaw on display, throat bobbing as he groaned, half-formed curses spilling out of his mouth as he rocked up. Each thrust was diluted by the sheer size of his cock, the guy's hips snapping up only to have his shaft distend and squish, only pushing a fractional inch deeper.

Rhys kept pushing himself, asshole gaping around the horse cock. It burned, the throb of his wrecked asshole joined by a dizzy, aching pressure as the thing rammed into the end of his ass, pressing vainly against the entrance to his colon. Pre squirted out from his ass as he shifted, painting the zebra guy's thighs and stomach in milky slime, forming drooling strands down the underside of Rhys' tail. The crown of his cockhead pressed against the opening to his guts, the divot of his cockslit pushing inside like a wet kiss, deep inside. Rhys let out a shuddering gasp as heat flooded higher up, sloppy pumps of horse pre filling his guts with a rumbling gurgle.

"You okay?" the guy managed, just staring at the junction where his cock was sunk into Rhys' ass, his asshole gaping and split, tail lashing wildly.

"Hurts like hell," he said, and when the guy looked worried Rhys just grinned and slammed himself another fat inch down, getting a yowl from the guy and a fresh kick in the guts from his cock. "Keep going."

The guy's medial ring pressed against his agonizingly-spread asshole, kissing it with a wet slap and then drawing back tethered with ropy lines of precome. The guy arched up, throat bared, hands wrapped tight around Rhys' thighs. The head of his cock twitched, lurching in Rhys' guts, and he forced himself down again, dizzy and light-headed as that flat horse-cock tore into his guts.

He growled, cock sinking deeper in uneven lurches, feet of it vanishing up his ass until the wrinkled sheath was pressed against his scummy ass, the cockhead just under his ribcage. Each twitch knocked his breath out, leaving him gasping, and a feverish heat rose in him, litres of pre flooding his guts until they ached. His abs tensed, fighting against the pressure inside him, but just looking down — as he squatted down and rose up, the guy's medial ring popping out of his bloated asshole with a gush of pre that soaked them both — his stomach wasn't stretched; his body was keeping all the pressure locked inside.

The guy seemed practically insensate, lips drawn back in a horsey grimace, nickering between heaving breaths. He rocked up, burying his cock to the sheath and sending his cockhead slamming into Rhys' diaphragm, sawing back and forth in thrusts that felt like they would pull his guts with them. His asshole gaped, sharp pain shooting through with each thrust — bloated and unfurled as the guy's sheath rammed between his cheeks, scraping the flesh there into ragged red slabs, probably torn anyway.

The zebra guy let out a desperate whinny, and when he flared that was finally enough to overpower Rhys' muscles. The head bulged out as a bloated divot just under his ribs, squeezing against his lungs. His balls pulled tighter, pressing burning-hot against Rhys' ass, and then he just came, exploding in what seemed like an unending spray, pumping gush after gush of watery horse jizz into his already overfilled guts. The flare — it seemed like his entire body was stretched around it, a huge mushroom-cap flare bulging his guts more than they were ever meant to take. He panted, drool dripping from his slack mouth, hoarse ragged noises as the guy pumped him full, until he had to let his muscles go slack just to have _room_ , stomach rounded and heavy and literally sloshing; gurgling with every movement.

Halfway through Rhys stroked himself off enough to come; cock flagging and half-hard but still spraying pre all over the place; he came with a full-body clench that didn't even dent the spouting flare of the zebra guy's cock, an explosion of jizz gushing out in droplets, spraying in all directions.

By the time the guy finished — the sloppy gel finisher congealing in him, plugging his guts tight — Rhys only had the energy left to topple to the side, whining from the jolt of pain from his overfilled belly. The guy tugged back, his half-flared cockhead pulling out with a _shluck_ that did end up tugging Rhys' ass with it, a swell of red flesh blossoming between his cheeks, streaked pink and red, slowly draining what mess had ended up under his flare.

Rhys rolled to the side, guts lurching, and the guy pressed himself tight against his back, cock flagging between them. "Fuck, man, stay," he mumbled in Rhys' ear, one arm tossed carelessly around the swollen curve of Rhys' stomach.

He might've argued, but adrenaline and dopamine were keeping him high, body singing with pain — steady, throbbing aches mixed all in with sharp cutting pains as his guts shifted — and in that dizzy, semi-euphoric state, he just grunted and closed his eyes, not so much falling asleep as losing consciousness.

* * *

He'd woken up in considerable amounts of pain, with a subtly different tenor. It was nice: the mods were starting to wind their way out of his system, leaving him still bruised and aching after a night's sleep. His empty socket already had a pulpy bone mass growing in it; the fang mods clearly thought they were still doing _something_.

The guy was pillowed up behind him, arms wrapped around Rhys' chest, hands spread over his swollen gut. His cock was morning-hard, unsheathed but not erect, a massive fucking log pressed against Rhys' back. Rhys' tail — he still wasn't entirely used to having one — had been draped over the guy's hip, the tail slowly swinging of its own volition. The guy's breath had been buzzing just below a snore: loud, rough, but not annoying enough to keep him from dozing.

There had been a moment when he looked at the clock; saw it would've been time to be at work in fifteen minutes and he'd just thought "fuck it"; fuck all that; he deserved to wake up in a pretty nice apartment with a hot guy and not have to rush off. Work would keep. Like they'd fire them for one day, and if they did, fuck it, whatever.

Like the universe agreed with him, the guy woke up, breath honking into a snort before he woke with a shudder. He tugged Rhys closer, back tight against his chest, tight enough to pull a sharp hiss out when he put pressing on his aching gut.

"You're still here," he said, slurred, lips mumbling over Rhys' shoulder. "Fuck, that all really happened." Rhys grinned to himself as the guy's cock slowly stiffened, memories rushing back or just the touch of his body.

"Yeah, it did."

The guy hummed, reaching down, fingers sliding over the wreck of Rhys' asshole. It hurt, his asshole swollen into slabs of bloated flesh, vividly red and overlapping, folded all over itself. Coated in a dried layer of jizz, grimy white and crackling under the guy's fingertips, and the guy slowly worked his fingers inside, his ass still flooded with his old pre in thick waves. The guy's cock kicked, gushing pre across Rhys' back. "Good to go again?" The guy's voice was eager, his fingers already knuckle-deep, twisting around with slick, sloppy sounds.

"Yeah," he said. "Easy, though." It took a while to warm up; he sure as hell wasn't gonna be up for brutal pain at seven in the morning.

The guy seemed content to do most of the work, slotting his cockhead against the slick folds of his asshole and rocking inside. After last night, the flat crest of his cockhead barely had to push to sink inside, and he gasped and groaned as he rutted back and forth, nudging his cockhead inside until its ridge caught over Rhys' abused asshole and sunk inside.

Zebra guy froze, cock spouting pre into his slack ass, and then ever-so-slowly he worked it right back out. He pulled the ring of his asshole out with it, leaving him with a gaping red swell of flesh between his cheeks that he just shoved right back inside with the flat of his cock, picking up a sloshing, sloppy rhythm working his cockhead over the wreck of Rhys' asshole.

It was nice. He hurt enough he didn't have to worry about getting off, free to focus on the waves of heat that were pouring through him, shocky jolts every time the guy ripped his guts inside-out or rammed right back into his bruised prostate without having his cock distract him. He settled back against the guy, half-asleep as he fucked him, ass sloppier and sloppier as the guy messed up his ass, pre slurping out of him in wet, messy splatters.

The guy had a _mouth_ on, him, talking to himself, talking to Rhys maybe, just mumbling — "oh fuck", and "so nice", and once, "oh fuck, and you're still so _tight_ " that was punctuated with a gush of pre that sprayed right up his gaping guts. Mostly just groaning, panting into Rhys' ear as he got more and more worked up. He could tell the guy was about to shoot; he'd felt it building for minutes in the tension of his shoulders and chest, in the way his cock was fluttering, in the way the guy's balls had been churning, knocking against the backs of his knees when the guy stuffed his cockhead into his wrecked ass.

The guy came with a whinny, louder in the bedroom than it'd been in the parking lot, and his cockhead flared open, dragging Rhys' asshole with it with a soggy squelch. The guy's fresh jizz poured into him in a gush. His ass was leaking all over; the guy's come was slopping over the fat lip of his flare and soaking the bedsheets. He was at least distracted from constant painful weight of the jizz plug stuffed up in his guts by the _new_ weight of the guy's load, filling his ass up with a sloshing weight.

The guy pulled back, the flared crown of his cock digging a hot line all around his wrecked asshole, pulling at his _entire_ ass, and even half-asleep he was surprised by how his body was bowing around it, gaping asshole distending until with a lewd, grotesque slurp the guy pulled out, flare and all, dragging his asshole with it. The guy's load just poured out of him, his body completely overfilled, and he hardly noticed the wet splatter of the guy's plug, ropes of congealing gel just hosing across the unfurled flesh of his ass.

The bed under him was a lot wetter and soggier, and — the room had already stunk like sex, but now it was overpowering. Even the lather of sweat was washed out by the almost-chemical tang of the guy's jizz, sharp like bleach. Rhys just rolled away, almost on his stomach, reaching back to push the edge of his wrecked ass. Flesh slowly peeled away, pulling away from its furls against his hairy cheeks and soaked tail as his body swallowed his guts back up inside. It gulped, wet and slurping as it folded back in on itself.

The guy was still hard. He'd busted his nut in just a few minutes, and now with the dregs of his load still clinging to his cockhead he was staring at Rhys' ass, fucking _hungry_ looking. The room was well-lit; it was weird to think this was the first time he'd actually seen the guy in good lighting. He had sharper cheekbones than Rhys'd noticed at first. "Can I?" he'd said, palms flat on Rhys' ass cheeks, streaking through layers of glazed jizz, fingers spiking his hair up and digging into the bruised muscle of his wrecked hole. "Fuck," he'd mumbled under his breath, just staring, fingertips digging deeper.

"Go ahead." It was a mumble, more noise than speech.

The guy sunk his hand into the loose folds of meat, pushing them back rightside-out with a hollow sucking noise, one hand sunk into his ass effortlessly and the other guiding his cockhead right back in after it, sinking his cock into Rhys' ass with almost no resistance. He groaned, staring at the wreck of Rhys' ass as he sunk his cock all the way in, asshole popping, jizz squelching out in globs around his shaft. His sheath tapped against Rhys' cheeks, the guy hilted, cockhead tapping against the plug he'd set last night.

"Fuck," he said again, the soft mumble of his voice almost drowned out by the wet squelch of each thrust, "You're so fucking amazing, look at you, taking my cock," he said, rutting his sheath up against Rhys' asshole. The fuzzy flesh was like spikes, prickling over Rhy's body and then — the guy rocked forward in one bashing thrust, and his cock tore right through the plug, his gaping asshole sucking in the fat tube of his sheath, until he really was buried balls-deep, sheath peeling Rhys' asshole open by another fraction.

It was that plus his one-pump equine cock; he tensed and came _again_ , hardly more than a minute after the first time, grunting and groaning, mouth dragging over the swell of Rhys' shoulder. He couldn't even tell last night's load from this one; jizz steaming inside him, sloshing and gurgling up and down his guts, flooding over the guy's flare and squirting out around the guy's shaft, spraying back over the guy's stomach and crotch as he fucked Rhys deep, his flare dragging a bunched mass of his guts with it, gurgling and churning as they shifted out of alignment.

He was a fucking wreck by the time the guy finished. The bed was a mess, streaky globs of jizz drooling out over the angry red flesh of his asshole, soaking into the sodden sheets. The guy collapsed on top of him, cock still buried inside, jizz slurping out around his shaft in huge, messy wells. They dozed for a while, even with the squelching mess of the mattress beneath them.

The soggy patches of jizz turned clammy and cold after a few minutes. Rhys was just about to fall asleep again despite that when the guy's phone rang. The guy rolled over, mumbling again, one hand slapping at the desk next to his bed. His cock pulled out with a slurp, leaving him gaping open.

"Sorry," the guy said, as he answered the phone, and Rhys sure as hell hoped that had been to _him_. "Hey, so," he opened with, and whoever was on the other end of the phone yelled loud enough it made Rhys' head throb.

Rhys pushed himself up, slow, wincing as his guts gurgled. "You got a shower?"

The guy gave him a blazing grin, already saying "no no no, yeah, sorry, didn't mean to vanish last night" into the phone, and jerked his head to one of the two doorways. "I, uh, kind of met someone at the club," he was saying as Rhys got up.

He was sloshing, wet slaps audible from his bloated guts. His asshole ground against itself with each step, each step squirting out a messy trickle of come, soaking the underside of his tail, drooling over his fuzzy cheeks, slowly dripping down the backs of his thighs. If he was in a better state of mind he'd probably be eavesdropping on the guy's conversation; as it was he just shambled over to the bathroom and flipped on the light.

In the mirror, he looked like a complete mess. He was maybe the most proud of the purplish bruising across his jaw, just below his ears: where he'd dislocated his jaw sucking the guy's cock. The rest of it — well, he still couldn't open his right eye, the swelling was so intense, but that was nothing new.

He showered. It was a mess; he kept leaking bursts of jizz every time he shifted his weight. By the time he was clean the tiles under his feet were grimy-slick with the guy's load.

He walked out of the bathroom naked and the guy was off the phone. Zebra guy just fucking stared, head to toe and then back again with a goofy grin on his face the whole time.

His clothes from last night were by the bed, stiff with dried jizz. "Uh, you can borrow some of mine," the guy said, finally rolling out of bed. Rhys did some ogling of his own.

Rhys cut things short: he might've already been an hour late for his construction shift; he wasn't gonna even fucking bother with them, but he'd need to get back to his place if he wanted to show up at the school in time. He was gonna be limping the entire way back.

Still, when the guy'd stepped close, the tips of his ears red, and said: "So, uh, can I get your number?" he'd given it, thinking — well, thinking that'd been a hell of a lay, and the guy wasn't hard on the eyes at all.

His phone'd rang when he was on his way out of the guy's building, dressed in some clothes that were just a little too small, and at first he'd thought the guy was really overeager. "Yo?" he said, and there was a click, and a pause, and then an unfamiliar voice on the other end.

"Is an Emrys Treharne available?" she'd said.

"That's me," he'd said, or something like that.

"I'm calling from Gene Research Incorporated," she'd said, and that was that. It should've maybe felt like... like that slowly-growing pit of worry in his stomach dissolving in an instant, but instead it didn't feel like much of anything. Like a phone call.

"We're offering you the job," the woman on the phone said, "but this isn't an official job offer — once we extend the job offer you have twenty-four hours to get a drug test at one of our offices, and they're closed on the weekend, so we'll call you again on Monday with the legal offer."

"Yeah," he'd said, nonplussed. "Sure."

There'd been more, but it wasn't important — he jotted down an address on his forearm with a pen he'd had in his pocket, and that was that, he had the job. Well, not technically. It still hadn't really hit him yet. When he hung up, his phone had a text on it from the zebra guy, "hey its—" and then the zebra guy's name, he assumed "— hmu sometime last nite was great"; he saved the number under "Zebra guy".

So that was how he got the Genic job.


End file.
